The Viking Way
by fanfic-addict21
Summary: It's 913AD and from Miseryfjellet to Alba, the world is in turmoil. Merida, 17; Hiccup, 22. I horrified myself writing this... Adult themes, gore, violence, plenty of triggers.
1. Chapter 1

Welcome to my story! I want to mention a couple things right away. 1) I have no ownership of the How To Train Your Dragon franchise or Disney's Brave (2012) and I make no money from this fanwork.

 **2) This story is not for the faint of heart.** Bear in mind this warning before you get in too deep to want to quit. However, if I haven't scared you away, then by all means, enjoy!

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Hiccup, Chief of Berk, leaned back in his chair and stretched. His eyes were fairly swimming from studying the books of law as he did every night. The Viking Laws were exhaustive and dry reading, but he trudged through them, night after night. He owed it to Berk, after all, to at least try to be as good a chief as his father had been. All day, he managed and coordinated and resolved problems. It was exhausting, and downright dull. When Astrid was home, the evenings were at least pleasant, because he could rest his eyes on her every once in a while as she mended gear on the other side of their firepit. It was very domestic, and nice. She wasn't on Berk presently. She'd had a dream on their wedding night that when she was pregnant for the first time, she needed to find a ~ _something_ ~ that was essential to their child's well-being. He'd thought that he ought to go with her to find it, but she refused to have him along.

"It's bad enough that you've treated me like some sweet breakable princess since the day I said my period was late. I'm a warrior, Hiccup. This is what I do. Don't worry about me, or about our babe. We'll be fine. Trust me." And with that, she'd kissed his cheek, and stepped on to her _skuta_ *

A log cracked and shifted in the fire, sending a cloud of sparks up and breaking him from his reverie. It was going to rain, he decided, massaging his leg. He glanced at the book, then his aching stump, and banked the fire so he could go to bed.

In the room that he and Astrid shared, on their marriage bed, he sat to take off his prosthetic. She'd been gone three weeks and therefore hadn't seen his newest version. He smiled a little. This one was very nice, if he did say so himself. It almost looked like a foot. Almost worked like one too. He'd gotten tired of the metal rusting from exposure, and after a fellow Viking chief had tripped him at the Thing and loudly said, "Not even a whole man, barely even half of one," he was done.

He had tried putting a shoe over the one he had, and that had not worked well. So he set out to redesign the whole thing. Now, after about 20 versions, it was nothing less than a masterpiece. It was shaped like his other foot, and covered in light oiled doeskin that laced up the front to allow him access the mechanisms inside as well as tighten the strap around his stump to keep it in place. What were truly exceptional about it were the hinges: two in the foot to allow it an almost normal range of motion, controlled with tension springs so they didn't flop around. A pivot joint in the ankle allowed even more motion, and the ultimate feature? The tension varied based on how his leg pressed against the stump. Just like how a normal calf muscle and tendon did. He was pretty sure he was done growing now; he wouldn't have to make a new one until this one wore out. He was glad that he was taller than all the other Vikings, even though he was still skinny. Lying back, he mused that the chiefing job was bad for him in another way. He never got a chance to get out and fly, or climb, or run, and barely any time to work in the forge even if Gobber would have let him now that he was chief. People kept bringing him food. He was starting to fit into the category of "could stand to miss a few meals". Well, not as bad as most of the Vikings, but it was noticeable to him. He yawned and pinched the candle flame.

Crickets chirped, Toothless snored softly from the ridge perch. Hiccup drowsily said a prayer to Freya for his absent wife and babe, and fell asleep.

The next morning the sun rose beautifully over Berk, two hours after Hiccup had started his day. Toothless still needed attention, after all. He'd scratched his dragon's loose scales off with a wire brush, and set the tail fin to allow Toothless solo flight so he could fish his own breakfast fresh from the sea. He'd done the other chores for the chickens, two sheep, two goats, and the pregnant heifer that had been part of Astrid's bride price, which she had named Gertrude. He cooked his own porridge and cleaned his house, putting things in order before beginning his customary walk around the village. This walk usually took all day, because the villagers would waylay him for every little thing. An hour into the walk, after mollifying Bjargey about her chickens, advising Ketil about his broken oarlock, and extracting himself from the jolly (and loquacious) conversationalist Bolli, yet another villager joined him.

Snotlout was by far the villager Hiccup dreaded interacting with the most. Not because Snot was a sore loser about the chiefdom, because he wasn't, not even a little. It couldn't be their rivalry, because that was all in Hiccup's head, obviously. Snot had been nothing but gracious and worshipful of Hiccup. Snotlout had grown out of his awkward illogical phase once he'd no longer needed to try to impress the ladies. He'd married a woman named Halla, who was younger than them. She was a tiny woman, but fierce. She was also very sweet and sensible - good for Snotlout. She'd just birthed their first child, a daughter they called Bretta. Hiccup couldn't really put his finger on the reason why Snotlout made him feel awkward, but in the back of his mind, a disembodied hand gestured to their history, all of it. He quashed that thought.

"Hiccup, my man!" Snotlout greeted loudly, slapping him on the shoulder. "How's it hanging?"

"Oh, hey, Snotlout," Hiccup said, "everything's fine, fine and normal, and all that." He winced at the ridiculousness of still being awkward at the age of twenty-two.

"So, Klanger told me his daughter the shepherdess spotted a small boat from the cliffside pastures. It looked about the size of your wife's, but was running no sail or oars that she could see."

"If Astrid, or whoever, is drifting from the cliff side of the island, the boat will run ashore on the south beach. No rocks there," Hiccup mused, wondering why Astrid would want to drift in.

"Maybe you should go meet your lovely bride and do some catching up." Snotlout winked ostentatiously.

"She won't land until after midday, at that rate of drift, you know. I can't shirk my super important duties here, anyway." Hiccup commented wryly, as Little Sven Hranason came puffing up the hill, to ask him something super important, obviously. Snotlout grinned and waited for Hiccup to deal with the kid's request (something about breeding seasons for goats).

Then he delivered the kicker. "Aunt Valka asked me to find you for something, can't quite remember what exactly it was, but she needs you," said Snotlout casually.

Hiccup turned around so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. "What? When? How long ago? Never mind, where is she?"

Snotlout snickered and pointed down the hill at Stoic's old house, where Valka lived by herself now.

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When the sun reached its zenith, Hiccup started down the hill to the beach, smiling softly as he imagined the impending reunion with his beautiful wife. Valka walked a few paces behind him, eager to see her daughter-in-law and grandchild. They called a cheery hello to villagers as they made their way down the path. Then Hiccup rounded the boulder at the entrance of the beach and his heart caught.

*Last Warning: Not for the faint of heart. I'm serious. If you read this anyway and regret it, remember I warned you.*

Hiccup stared, disbelieving and speechless, at the sight before him on the shore of Berk.

Blond hair, drenched red. Blue eyes, wide and vacant. Limbs sprawled at unnatural angles. More blood, dried brown, streaked down the twisted flesh of her once shapely legs.

His metal leg gave out beneath him and his knees hit the sand. It should have hurt, but he felt nothing. He couldn't believe… His ears rang with the noise of a thousand universes. He swallowed thickly, and the smell assaulted him. Further down the strand clouds of flies buzzed over slickly gleaming entrails.

He gagged.

The gruesome vision swam before him blurrily, and with a shock, he realized his face was wet. Crying. Of course he was. He swiped angrily at the tears. The whole village was watching, and this is what he showed them? Weakness – unacceptable – stupid tear ducts – (but, surely, if any situation called for it, this one did?) - Vikings did not cry; end of story. He blinked hard, and scowled.

Wait.

On her cheek, they'd branded her.

Steeling his stomach, trying to pretend this mutilated corpse wasn't anyone he knew or cared about (much less his bride – only days ago drinking honey mead with him), he leaned closer to inspect the mark. It had been burnt into her –no, damn it, _the-_ face before death; quite some time before. Infection had set in. The areas surrounding the brand were red and swollen shiny, beginning to crack. The brand itself was a complex knot design of skin charred black.

With a mad sort of fury, he realized he hated the ones who had done this to her more than he'd ever hated anyone in his life. This was Astrid. She never lost, never gave up. She didn't ever stop moving, deadly and graceful. This ungracefully sprawled dead victim was impossible for him to reconcile with his fierce, vivacious wife. It was impossible.

It was really, awfully true.

What right did the gods – fate- whatever - have to smash him under its heel? He'd finally _succeeded_ at something, tasted _happiness_ for the first time in his life, and just like that it was taken away.

What had he done to deserve this? He worked so hard, hoped so tirelessly. Why couldn't it ever be enough?

He almost physically felt himself change. He didn't deserve this. He wouldn't take it lying down. The person he'd been - that Hiccup was gone. Suddenly, a new, wrathful stranger had taken his place. He stood to his feet, one metal and one flesh, and squared his shoulders.

He was a Viking. He was the chief. This was some strange wo- person he'd never seen before. He would bring the perpetrators of this wickedness to justice, dispassionately. He repeated these facts in his head several times to drown out the young man who had loved Astrid his whole life; the one who wanted to howl and rampage and destroy everything and then die.

"Scots did this," he said in a loud, even voice. That Celtic knotwork brand had been clear enough. "We sail in two days' time," proclaimed the Viking Chief, loudly enough for everyone to hear. He tightened his lips to a thin line and glanced down at Astrid's corpse, searing the image into his brain. "We'll make them pay," he whispered his vow to her, and then raised his voice, "We'll MAKE THEM PAY!"

"AYE!" shouted all his villagers, not quite a cheer, and not quite a snarl.

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*small boat


	2. Chapter 2

Alright, bear with me. This chapter is more politics than action. Some foreshadowing is set up here, though, so don't skip it! Or do, I don't care.

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They'd been ready to leave the next day and sailed to the Tingvellir. Terrible Terrors had been dispatched to each of the Chieftains with a summons to the Thing.

Seven tribes of Vikings had responded in the affirmative to this off-season Thing. The Hairy Hooligans had waited nearly a month, to give the tribes travel time, along with mustering ships, men, weapons, horses and supplies.

It was time. Hiccup pulled up his new-found Viking self that always simmered just below the surface now, and spoke as loudly as Stoick ever had.

"I have called you together into the hall of the Thing, my fellow chiefs, to warn you of a new threat, one that we absolutely must not dismiss as frivolous. On my island of Berk, one of the furthest northern islands, an atrocity has been committed," he took a deep breath for dramatic effect, "by the Scottish. See here their sigil as it was branded on the victim's face." He threw the small slab of wood on which he had copied the brand design onto the center of the long table. "If it is not enough for you that the Scots have murdered a Viking in cold blood and branded them like chattel, let me tell you just who it was lying in a pool of blood on my shore." He took another deep breath, not just for drama this time, and continued grimly, "It was my wife, Astrid, and they did not just murder her. She was raped and disemboweled and her blood strewn from one end of the land to the other. There can be no rest for her, no honor."

Uneasy murmuring echoed around the hall. Men shifted in their seats.

"And that is not even the worst of their crimes!" Hiccup was getting impassioned now. "They have also slaughtered my son, a defenseless babe in the womb! They have ended my line-"

"Ye can't have another?"

Hiccup drew his knife and threw it. It stuck in the table top, vibrating, just before the idiot who had dared spout that wisdom.

"You want to give me your daughter to make good on that suggestion?" Sigtryggar One-Eye's daughter was seven years old, and the apple of her father's remaining eye. The look on Hiccup's face promised that misery lay down that path.

There was only one answer to give that furious countenance, "No-o, of course not, Chief Hiccup, not before we make war on the Scots to avenge your dead wife and son so their souls may rest easy in the afterlife, Odin guard them."

"Good. What are your numbers, and when can they be mustered by?" Hiccup looked expectantly around the hall. "Meet back here by sundown with solid estimates of your strength and timelines, so we can set out to destroy those murdering Scots."

When some of the chiefs shifted awkwardly and refused to meet his piercing gaze, Hiccup added, "If Berk isn't safe so far from the Scots, what makes you think your wives and children won't be the next ones gutted? Óttar? Rögnvaldr and Guðrøðr? Grímmi? Sigtryggr? Mogadon?" Hiccup pounded the table once with the flat of his hand for emphasis, and frustration, and stalked out the door.

-Only to run into the last person he wanted to see. "Dagur, uh, hello. What are you doing here?" Asked Hiccup in a flat, emotionless voice. They had decided not to send a messenger dragon to the Berserker Tribe, but of course Dagur had heard. Of course. Such was Hiccup's lot in life – no luck, not even now.

"Seems my invitation got lost in the mail, my friend," Dagur rejoined smoothly, advancing toward Hiccup and edging him back into the hall where all the other chiefs were still gathered. "I was just _devastated_ to hear of your tragic loss. Such a _pity_ for Astrid Hofferson to be gone so soon. She was the best and brightest of Berk. I am so sorry, friend Hiccup." And here, Dagur laid his hand on Hiccup's shoulder. Hiccup pinched himself surreptitiously, disbelieving. "Do you have any idea of who perpetrated this villainy, Hiccup? We ought to exterminate them; they are too wicked to live in peace with." Dagur's face crinkled in a decidedly malicious way, and he kept running his thumb across the pommel of his sword.

"Oh, uh, yeah, actually. This is their sigil." Hiccup groped around behind himself on the table and thankfully came up with the wood-burning he had tossed out there earlier.

"Oh!" said Dagur brightly, "I know that one! Rögnvaldr, weren't you telling me about your grandfather, Ívarr the Boneless? He invaded their land and left a wide swath of destruction, all the way to Wessex before he was killed, isn't that right? Took the flag of the high king of Alba as a trophy, didn't he?"

Hiccup turned a look of astonishment to the man in question, who was trying to look innocent and baffled.

"Oh, yes! Clean slipped my mind, until ye jus brought it up, thanks, Dagur. Yes, Alba. The one-legged Bear King. What a craven blowhard! He wanted treaties and ceasefires all the time, and he'd always stop to pray to his Roman God before every battle. I'd forgotten all about him. Sorry, Hiccup!"

Dagur's oily voice interjected itself into Hiccup's racing thoughts, "Since you know this Bear King, fought him before, perhaps it'd be best if you led us to victory." Dagur turned to Hiccup apologetically, "I know, it's your vengeance, But Rögnvaldr knows this enemy and his lands, and maybe you're not thinking so clearly, not that anyone would blame you for that. Let Rögnvaldr Ívarrsson lead the raid, and free yourself up to exact whatever form of vengeance you desire against the people who took your wife from you."

"Steal one of their women, it'd be only fair," suggested Sigtryggr, clearly trying to distract Hiccup from his daughter, who he had no plans of offering to the skinny little half-mad Chief of Berk if he could help it.

Hiccup sneered at him, and then turned back to Dagur, eyes lingering on Rögnvaldr who was leaning back with his arms crossed. Hiccup nodded awkwardly, "Of course, it's only logical that I bow to your superior experience, Ívarrsson. Thank you," he gritted out, trying to smile. It ended up being more of a toothy grimace. Hiccup brushed past Dagur and left the hall before he could completely lose his temper.

He didn't see Dagur's vicious smirk, or Rögnvaldr's satisfied nod, or Sigtryggr's sigh of relief. All the other chiefs saw, and not one of them gave any indication to the furious grieving young man during the next few weeks of preparation. He wasn't really a Viking, in their eyes. Too odd. This was for the best, really.

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I had fun doing the research for this - lots and lots of research! Next up: The Battle. Stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

Here comes the promised intensity; get ready!

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Now they were almost to their destination.

"Here, Chief Hiccup, take this. It'll keep you through the battle."

Hiccup stared blankly at the man (one of Dagur's, he thought), barely glancing at what had been pressed into his hand. "You _eat_ it, lad," the man said, almost gently, when he didn't move.

"Right," replied Hiccup, and shoved the small round dried cake of whatever-it-was into one of his breast pockets. "I think I've got enough fuel to get me all the way past the jugular of the Scottish chief, friend, but if I need it, I'll have it." The man hesitated, about to press further, but – "Thank you," Hiccup clipped out, as an afterthought, and turned decisively away to stare again at the dark strip of land through the mist. Dagur's minion left. Dagur himself had been amused by Hiccup's determination to vengeance, and had been almost friendly the past few days. The Berserkers had brought the most longboats.

"It's time, Dragon Riders! Mount up!" called Rögnvaldr Ívarrsson.

Hiccup leapt into Toothless' saddle and patted the armored hide of his buddy's neck. They were going to battle, once again. "For Astrid," he murmured, and Toothless agreed with a sound equally as grim and resolute.

Rögnvaldr's voice cracked like a whip, "Go!"

Fifty-odd dragons with riders shot into the sky. Each type of dragon was assigned the kind of destruction that best-suited, and the mixed squads were allocated according to recent intelligence of the castle, with its surrounding lake and town. Nadders to melt metal, Gronkles to eat stone, a flock of non-ridden Terrible Terrors to cause general mayhem, among others. Catapults, hot oil, arrows, nets: they all had their adversary in a specific type of dragon. All but Toothless.

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"As the only Night Fury, your mission is the most simple and the most fluid," the battle master had said during planning. "Destroy." Rögnvaldr grinned a vicious grin, and Hiccup had barred his teeth back in just as sick and twisted parody of a grin as any of those hardened Viking warriors had ever seen.

Whispers had swept around the room, "…late bloomer…" "…smallest ones are the meanest…" "…his father…proud" "…not a runt anymore…" "…that's the true Viking way…"

They had painted their faces, sharpened their weapons, and planned the deadliest attack the Scots would ever fall to.

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Just as the towers of the Scot's Broch* came into view, Hiccup thought, "This war is just as senseless as the last one." Then he thought of Astrid again, on the beach, and hardened his heart. "Honestly, I don't even care anymore," he snapped at his ridiculous and ill-timed surge of morals. "Here's to dying in battle," and he pulled the small pressed cake from his breast pocket and swallowed it whole. "I'll see you soon, Astrid."

Then the whole world collided in flames and smoke, screams and the tolling of bells, anguish and despair - for their enemies, the Scots.

He didn't care. His thoughts dried up, his conscience faded, no thinking just GO, and bloody destruction filled his mind.

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He, the Dragon whose Word is Toothless, was not stupid. These scurrying ants He and His Rider, (and His Rider's ships and men and all the men's metal teeth,) were attacking, had killed His Rider's mate, the Girl of the Dragon whose Word is Stormfly. The Dragon whose Word is Toothless had smelled the atrocities the enemy had done to her, and His clever rider had led Them to the wicked ones. He and His battle brother flew, rending and incinerating Their foe, and the foe was fleeing before Their mighty strength! This was perfection, His domain, the dark night, and They had never flown so well together as now. His battle brother always wasted time, thinking and planning, deciding what was right; and while that was good sometimes, the exhilaration of battle and Their unity of purpose transcended everything now, all the previous days of light washed away and gone. This dark night, this was right and good!

The Dragon whose Word is Toothless and His Rider twisted and dove through the dark sky, dealing deadly shots to all the largest war machines on the top of the wall. Trebuchets, catapults, heavy bolt launchers, net throwers: they all splintered in their wake. When all the machines were dead, the fearless battle Brothers swooped down to the top of the wall as They has so often practiced in the light before this enemy struck, each on his own wings. Foes with flimsy string and branch stinging-weapons tried to turn, but they were too late. Toothless (His Word) was letting His flames recharge, but He had wings and claws and teeth a plenty. He and his battle brother, the Warrior whose Word is Hiccup, they whirled and danced destruction. Throats spurted, guts spilled, death was all around them, never touching. "Oh, Beautiful Mother!" the Dragon whose Word is Toothless exulted. Hiccup (His battle brother's Word) called the Word of his slain mate as his own battle cry.

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 _There – Danger._

 _Boom!_

 _Over there, danger._

 _Boom!_

 _Air caressing me, swoop-swish. Danger – Boom!_

 _Arrow zings by – ear still there_

 _There archers – Danger!_

 _Detach – Wings – falling/flying wind holds me_

 _Rock under my feet_

 _Whoosh – Thud. Battle Brother, black and fierce – got my back_

 _No more arrows from this one!_

 _Or that one. Laughter bubbles from my gut out my mouth – echoes!_

 _Haha!_

 _Another and another. Blood so slick Paying for Astrid_

 _Stab, whirl, heave, grunt, crunch. Enemy hits ground. And another!_

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The leader of the wall-top enemy was woman-scented, realized the Dragon whose Word is Toothless. Her crest was like fire, and she was fierce and nimble. None other remained on Their wall-top and He (whose Word is Toothless) was satisfied to watch His fearless battle brother take her.

His battle brother, The Warrior whose Word is Hiccup, broke her weapon – snapped its string with his cleverly stolen Nightmare flames, and wrenched it from her grasp, tossing it far behind them, off the wall. The Fire-crest Warrior Woman was trapped against a stone up-jut on the wall-top. The Warrior whose Word is Hiccup barred the way down to the inner courtyard, and the Dragon whose Word is Toothless guarded it. She was caught, but she did not cower. Oh, what a splendid foe she made! His battle brother seemed to agree, for he pinioned her claws and mounted her. She made the noise human females always seemed to make during mating, a high-pitched shriek that was reminiscent of Night Fury females. Toothless (His Word) flattened His ears and turned away. Poor human males, trapped to the ground during mating. Didn't they know that they would be less deafened by their screeching mates if they flew fast enough during mating? They didn't have wings, though, so they probably didn't know. The Dragon whose Word is Toothless grumbled and turned away to guard the back of His battle brother, taking a new mate in victory. The female fought and shrieked as well as any Night Fury female, more even than His battle brother's first mate. She would lay a strong egg – she was furious! The Dragon whose Word is Toothless smirked.

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 _Still laughing, that's me. Free – Viking I am Man_

 _Oh-PRETTY! So red but not blood LOVELY_

 _"_ _Steal one of their women…only fair" memory echoes_

 _Yes – Viking, this one – HAVE_

 _Flame, snap bowstring, toss – GAH, not the eye, Woman!_

 _Feisty with the claws – Viking – Have – repay in blood. Tear cloth_

 _So pretty, smooth neck – teeth - - - good. Good. GOOD. Yeah!_

 _Red come on, fly I have you – MINE. don't die this time, please_

 _Not Now Dragon – Stop, Wench! TOOTHLESS! Put me_

 _Down I want that pretty MINE – Go Back!_

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The Warrior whose Word is Hiccup had finished mating his new female, and now they needed to find a suitable nest. He took her crest in his claw and dragged her toward the Dragon whose Word is Toothless. Fire-Crest shrieked – Did she want to mate again, so soon?

Suddenly, horns began blowing from far off, and He (whose Word is Toothless) saw through the dark that more enemies came, from the south. They were riding the biggest fierce stallions, and they were _blue_? He stared, curious.

His Rider had almost reached His saddle, dragging the Fire-Crest, his new mate, when she purposely stumbled, to snatch up a metal tooth from the wall-top, and with it slashed off her own crest! She toppled down the step-hill to the inside of the wall, head over heels. His Rider turned to reclaim his mate, but just at that moment the voice of Their battle leader, whose Word is Rögnvaldr, hatched of Ívarr, boomed through the battle-sky, "Back to the longboats!"

"Blue warriors on fierce stallions; battle-leader says don't fight, fly away!" Toothless (His Word) trilled to His Warrior. His Rider didn't hear him, so the dragon snatched up His battle brother in His front paws and carried Them to the ground before the battle-leader.

Bodies strewn everywhere, fires burning, moans of dying, and screams of mourning, alarms clanging, horns resonating: it was a good battle. He (whose Word is Toothless) set His rider down and the human slipped in the bloody mud, but He steadied His Rider. The Battle Leader (Rögnvaldr, his Word) checked bodies for wounded to load onto the ships. Hiccup (His Rider's Word) was the last of the flying-warriors to return.

The Viking whose Word is Dagur (Danger) came loping up, swinging his bloody axe jauntily. He was whistling happily and his eyes were gleaming, still glazed over with the remnants of the berserker-gang leaf cake's effect. "All's well!" he called happily, and grinned. "Just one more thing." He clapped Hiccup (Word of His Rider) on the shoulder and embraced him, blood and all. The Dragon whose Word is Toothless was the only one who saw the tiny tooth in the hand of the one whose Word is Danger. He barked and sharp warning to His Rider.

Behind him, the Warrior whose Word is Rögnvaldr spoke. "Sorry, kid. Nothing personal, I'm afraid," and grabbed Toothless (His Word) by His tail, ripping His rudder –the part that belonged to His Rider- off, and gouging the part that _could_ still feel. The Dragon whose Word is Toothless screamed, reflexively shooting all the fire He could summon up (just enough for a fatal shot) at the one whose Word is Danger, but the one whose Word is Rögnvaldr jerked His tail hard enough that He missed. His fire singed Dagur (the Word of His enemy) on his arm anyway. The Enemy (whose Word is Dagur/Danger) howled and dropped the treacherous tooth. The biggest one, the now-enemy, whose Word is Rögnvaldr, bashed him, the Dragon whose Word is Toothless, into the battlement wall once, twice, thrice, (as Word of Danger bashed Hiccup His Rider the same way) before the world faded away into blinding white light.

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 _Whump, squelch. Bobble._

 _"…_ _Sorry, Kid…" Rögnvaldr Viking – fight more – leave, why?_

 _Dagur. Ihate – No, not. friend – Viking_

 _What_

 _Enemy NO_

 _"_ _SCREEEEEE!" Dagur hurt Dragon – Blood NO Boom! – miss_

 _SHIT_

 _ow Black spots ow Blue spots ow no stars ow…_

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Dagur lifted his axe to behead Hiccup, the thorn in his side, but Rögnvaldr grabbed his arm roughly. The Picts were almost upon them. "No time for that, come on!" Rögnvaldr hissed and chivvied Dagur up the ramp to the longboat and pushed off.

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The stars had not shifted much when the Dragon whose Word is Toothless came back to the dark. His tail hurt, His left side felt bare and too light, and where was His human, His rider, His battle brother? He struggled out of the crush of bodies at the dark base of the stone wall. It was quiet for a radius of at least six dragon-bounds, but human voices with strange Words echoed further away. The battle must have ended during His short sojourn into the light, and there was little time to loose before the carrion pickers came. Toothless (His Word) snuffed and rooted through the gore to find the scent of the One who was His.

There he was, only a dragon-bound away. Blood was on his face, and he flopped like a dead fish, but his heart still thundered, and his breast still swelled with air. They couldn't fly, - but They probably shouldn't anyway. There were lights on the wall-top, and more enemies coming ( _blue_ men!). The Dragon whose Word is Toothless gathered up the limp body of the Friend who is His, and slipped away into the darkness under the trees, just one more shadow in the night.

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So! How was that battle, huh? Didja like my take on dragon-stream-of-conciousness? I tried to do it justice. Also, sensitive topics were portrayed so let me know how you feel about that whole business. Review box just below! Click! Type! Yay!


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